He was cutting thatch for roofing and then binding the bundles with hemp cord. His well-honed body moved with a modicum of effort. Modesty closed her eyes and shook her head to clear it of his tantalizing image. She wanted to hate him for using her, for teaching her the addictive pleasures of his lovemaking. She grumbled at her lot, but she had to admit he gave her care, safety, fairness, and bravery. And she had to admit that the love consuming her with such an intensity was an agony. No, worse. It was a happiness that mocked her with its elusive fulfillment. If only she could make her mind a blank, her body rigid and unyielding whenever he came to take her unto him. Since last night, when he revealed his appalling past to her, he had not approached her, had not even come to bed. She knew he was still wrestling with the demons of his memory. Just as she knew he would nevertheless come to her before the week was out .
